Open Doors
by caffeineaddict13
Summary: Sequel to Pandora's Box. He wanted to fix her, but he didn't know how.


**A/N: **Yes, this is the sencond part to Pandora's Box. It picks up a little bit after where I left off. You'll catch on.

**Disclaimer: **No. No. And no.

"Start at the beginning," he told her.

His voice was rough from thought and time and disuse, mostly because he had never found anyone worth talking to all that much. He had friends (the apocalypse should come any day now), but he was still quite monosyllabic and they enjoyed each other's presence more than their conversation. But, honestly, it wasn't his turn to talk anyway.

He wanted to fix her. She looked out of place, sitting there, swinging her legs underneath the bridge like they had in their teenage years. Her hair was too done, her lips too lined, her face too tired. He missed her haphazard ponytails; he much preferred them to her shiny, over-glossed curls. He missed being able to see the blue of her eyes with only a little mascara, nothing else. He missed her half-smile, how it seemed natural, instead of the over-rehearsed one she now wore.

He wanted there to be laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, and for her mouth to turn easily. He wanted a look of happiness, not emptiness, to be always, not sometimes. She reminded him of the Tin Man from _The Wizard of Oz_, and he wanted to be the one to give her oil. Or maybe just to help her find it.

"I wouldn't know how to," she said, eyes glossy. "I…don't know what happened. I guess I just…fell." She sighed, as if using so many words was exhausting. It was clear to him that she hadn't been talking much lately.

"Just…" he started, furrowing his brow. He didn't know how to put it. "Tell me everything you've wanted to say, or think, or yell or scream, that you were afraid to before."

She looked down, picking at the beads on her dress. It reminded him a little of the way she was in high school, and part of him—internally—smiled.

"I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff," she said, so quietly it was almost a whisper. "I knew I could go back, but I didn't. I felt like—" she looked up this time, but stared straight, not turning her head towards him. "I felt like everyone was telling me to jump. Like they were telling me that it was okay. That I had a parachute. But I knew I didn't have one, and I still did it. Jumped, I mean. And by then, I was falling and it was too late. To go back."

She turned to him, and the look in her eyes made him want to tell her everything he felt. She looked so…afraid. Like she had given up.

"And I just kept on falling, and falling, and the further I got the more natural it felt. And then, after a while, it didn't even feel like I was falling anymore. It felt…good." She laughed, but it wasn't the laugh that he knew. It was bitter and humorless—the laugh of someone who had nothing left to gain.

"At some point, I think I knew it," she said sadly. "I knew that I had hit the ground, the bottom, the lowest of the low. And I knew that I wasn't myself anymore. But by then, I didn't even care, because it had felt so good to fall. Because when I did, I wasn't myself. I didn't even remotely remember myself. And when I wasn't myself, I didn't have to remember, anymore. I didn't have to think, or feel, or…hurt."

She looked at him this time, locking her eyes with his. He felt paralyzed by her stare. "I think I missed you," she said. "I think that I never really got over you. And maybe, by falling, I would. Because you would be left behind."

He bit his lip. "Did it work?"

This time, she didn't hesitate. "No," she said. "I just kept falling."

He moved towards her, leaning in to a sweet kiss. He wanted her to give him her sadness, her tears, anything that she didn't want. He would take it.

"I'll catch you," he said. "I promise."

She looked at him, and he followed the track of the tear that fell down her cheek. She smiled through it though, kissing him back. "Don't promise," she said. "Just be here."

He nodded. "I always was," he said. "You just had to find me."

She laughed, kissing the tip of his nose. A strange look passed her face, and she backed up, suddenly. "We can't start over, you know," she said. "We can't just pretend to press rewind, and then fast forward, and ignore all the stuff in between. We can't do that."

His lip curled up, and he looked at her. "That's okay," he shrugged. He leaned forward, whispering against her ear; sending shivers down her spine. "But you need to take your finger off of pause."

She kissed him then, closing the space between them, trying to recognize the taste. He knew that this was a long shot—but he knew something else, too. He had meant it those years ago, when he said they were _supposed to be together_—he still did.

And if someone had seen them there, a thin girl in a white dress, and a boy that was clearly her own, they might have guessed they were a promise; a symbol. A plan. But they knew better. Their futures weren't written in stone—they didn't have a plan. They didn't know where they'd end up in one year, or five years, or ten. But they knew that they would find a way to be together.

He smiled against her mouth, taking in everything—past and present. This wasn't a promise, he realized. It was an opportunity.


End file.
